


the things we believe in

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M, established relationship ish, faith and repentance and compromise and how it affects their relationship, fratt week prompt soul, like they don't know what it is but they work together and have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27321688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: “What’re you thinkin’ about?” Frank asks finally, because yes, it’s nice, but he’s also been quiet for a little while, and when Matt’s quiet but still awake, it means he’s deep in conversation in his own head.“You won’t like it.” Matt says it like it’s a brush off, like that’s where the conversation will end.“Try me.”“You’ll laugh, or fight, and I don’t want to argue tonight.” His voice is quiet, resigned, and Frank looks down to see the play of moonlight in his dark hair, the way it lights up his skin, pale where it’s not covered in bruises.---In which Matt worries about Frank's soul.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 3
Kudos: 72
Collections: Fratt Week





	the things we believe in

Matt’s been tracing patterns on his chest for like fifteen minutes. Sometimes he focuses on Frank’s scars, sometimes he follows the lines of his muscles, sometimes he draws aimless shapes. Maybe, if Frank focused a little harder, he’d realize that they were words.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Frank asks finally, because yes, it’s nice, but he’s also been quiet for a little while, and when Matt’s quiet but still awake, it means he’s deep in conversation in his own head.

“You won’t like it.” Matt says it like it’s a brush off, like that’s where the conversation will end.

“Try me.”

“You’ll laugh, or fight, and I don’t want to argue tonight.” His voice is quiet, resigned, and Frank looks down to see the play of moonlight in his dark hair, the way it lights up his skin, pale where it’s not covered in bruises.

“I won’t laugh.” He means it to be a promise, and he hopes that Matt can hear that in his voice, hear the sincerity in his heartbeat.

“You’ll think I’m stupid, Frank.”

“Can you stop tellin’ me what I’ll do, and start tellin’ me what you’re thinking about, so I can fix it?”

Matt smiles a little. It’s not his pure, unadulterated joy smile, or his near-euphoric post-orgasm smile, as endorphins flood through him. In the brief moment before Matt smothers it against Frank’s chest, it almost looks sad.

Not for the first time, Frank wishes his sight was as good as Matt’s hearing.

“You don’t want to fix it,” Matt says simply.

“Matthew.” It’s rare for Frank to pull out the full name—Matt always says it reminds him of the Sisters at Saint Agnes, scolding him for getting into a fight, or frustrated with him for not following orders blindly. “Tell me, or just shut up and go to sleep. No more dancing around it.”

Matt’s quiet for a little while, considering which he wants to do.

“I’m worried about your soul,” he confesses finally. “See? I told you you’d think it was stupid.”

“Hey, unless mind reading is one of your powers, let me tell you what I think. And I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Matt mutters something against Frank’s chest, and the rush of his breath and the vibrations of his voice seem to pierce through his ribs, hitting something deeper. 

“I’m not the one with super hearing, Matty,” he hears the fondness in his own voice. _Oh, fuck,_ he thinks, _I’m so far gone. So far out to sea that I can’t even see the shore._

Matt lifts his mouth slightly from Frank’s chest to enunciate. 

Frank’s suddenly struck by the thought that he doesn’t want to hear the words anymore. He wants Matt murmuring into his skin again, like a child into a pillow. The way Frank had whispered to Maria and the kids, pressing the words into the military issue pillowcase during nights so hot he wanted nothing more than to crawl out of his own skin— 

“Huh?” 

“Yer jus’ being nice,” Matt repeats. 

“I’m not being nice. I’m the fucking _Punisher_ , remember? I don’t do nice. I’m being honest. And I _honestly_ don’t think you’re stupid. Jeez, Red, you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, except when it comes to your own health and safety.” 

“You’re deflecting,” Matt observes. 

Maybe he is. It’s easier to debate whether Matt is stupid (he has two degrees that suggest otherwise. Not that formal education is the only indicator of intelligence, but still). It’s easier to have a pointless argument than to confront the actual problem. 

Here’s the best man he knows, laying in bed next to him, worried for his soul. And here’s Frank, whose chest is under Matt’s cheek as if it was built to be there. Frank, who has no idea what to say. 

“Why?” He asks finally. It’s a stupid question—he knows why Matt worries about his soul. He’s killed so many men, and those are just the ones that he remembers. There are probably dozens more, hundreds, even. At the very least, he’s stalling for time, trying to figure out an appropriate response that takes Matt’s concerns seriously and soothes them without lying or being patronizing. 

At best, what he really wants to understand is why a man like Matt is worrying about him. There are so many things he has done wrong over the years, but there must have been something he’s done right, too, to bring Matt into his life. 

“Frank.” Matt’s voice carried the faint hint of reproach. 

“I know why somebody who loves me might worry about my... soul.” The word feels awkward in his mouth—he can’t remember the last time he said it, if he ever has. “But why do _you_?”

The regret is immediate, a cold wave of air flowing in between his chest and the place where Matt’s cheek used to be. It sounds offensive, or self-deprecating, or like a trap to get Matt to say something he doesn’t mean.

Or maybe Matt just hears a burglary in progress and feels it’s his job to deal with it, serious conversation be damned. 

For the first time, Frank hopes Matt is as cartoonishly heroic as the city thinks he is. 

“Never mind,” Matt mumbles. “Forget it, I told you you’d think it was stupid.” 

He turns over, back facing Frank. Frank stares at the pale expanse of his skin, the shadows that might be hiding bruises. 

“Hang on, that’s not what I meant—“ 

“Forget it, Frank.” Matt’s voice is cool and level. “Go to sleep.”

Frank’s heart sinks. He’s fucked up. That voice is familiar—Maria had been the same. She’d never wanted to fight—he was home for such a short time, she didn’t want to waste it fighting. But she’d make herself known.

“Matty, I just—“ 

This time Matt doesn’t even say anything. 

“Why do you care?” Frank asks again, helplessly. 

The line of Matt’s shoulders stiffens. Not a word in response.

“I don’t—fuck—I mean…” He sighs. “I guess I’ve done something right, I mean. Because I get to have you worry about my soul, and that’s not something I ever thought would happen again.”

Matt turns over. They’re laying side by side now, pressed against each other from shoulder to hip.

“I don’t believe in that stuff anymore, Red.” He tries to make his voice gentle.

Some of the tension fades from Matt’s face, and he sighs.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But _I_ do. And one of us is right. You might be right, and there’s nothing after. And if you’re right, I shouldn’t have bothered worrying, but there’s no harm in it, right? But if _I’m_ right—”

“If you’re right, I’m going to hell?” Frank’s voice is tight, and he knows that Matt will be able to hear it. It’s not that he didn’t know what Matt believed, and it’s not that he couldn’t draw the logical conclusion from that to _oh, the guy I’m sleeping with thinks I’m going to hell_. It shouldn’t be a surprise, and yet somehow Frank finds that hearing the words out loud hurts.

“If I’m right,” Matt says very quietly, “you won’t get to be with your family after.”

It’s a punch in the gut.

“I _know_ it’s stupid, but I keep _thinking_ about them, waiting for you. And I think about _you_ , Frank, and I hear it in your heart, the way you miss them. It’s in your breath, it’s practically in your DNA. And I don’t—if there’s even a _chance_ that you could be with them again, I want that for you.”

Matt thinks Frank’s going to hell, and yet somehow, Frank’s the one who feels like an asshole.

“That’s what you think about, huh?” he says finally, “how does that brain of yours work, Matty, to come up with that?”

Matt sighs. “I… I don’t know. It’s st—”

“Don’t say stupid,” Frank warns him. “Because it’s not, and you’re not, and if you say you are, I’ll kick you out of bed to go sleep on the couch.”

“It’s my bed,” Matt points out mildly. Frank turns to lay on his side, propping himself up on his elbow so he can see the faint smile on that face.

Another reminder of how much he cares about this man, despite having tried his very best not to care at all, about anyone, after that day.

“What can I do?” he asks, laying his free hand on Matt’s chest. “What can I do to make you stop worrying?”

“Stop killing people?”

Frank pauses. They’ve had versions of this conversation before, Matt’s moral objection to his methods, Frank’s anger at the fact that Matt can’t accept what he is and is constantly trying to get him to change. This feels different than that. Matt’s not really trying to get him to change. He’s just trying to get Frank to understand that there’s pretty much nothing he can do to make Matt stop worrying.

“I’m not promising anything,” he says finally, because he’s not, but Matt will hold onto those words.

One of the things he’s learned from sharing Matt’s bed is how to parse his words. After all this time with a lawyer and human lie-detector, he’s gotten smart about what he says, and how he says it. At the very least, he’s learned to save his lies for over the phone, where his body won’t give him away.

Matt nods. He lays his own hand over Frank’s on his chest. But he’s too quiet.

“Say what you’re thinking,” Frank tries to word it as a request, rather than a demand, lets his voice lilt upwards.

“Would you be mad if I prayed for you?” Matt asks finally, “I just—you don’t believe, but _I_ do, and if I can do it for you—if I could put in a word with God, and ask Him—would you be mad?”

If anyone else asked if they could pray for him, Frank would have punched that person in the throat. But somehow, Matt makes it sound sweet.

Frank has the startling realization that perhaps he’s not the only one who cares more than he intended to.

And what’s the harm in Matt talking to his imaginary friend and trying to pull a string or two to get Frank in the big man’s good books?

“I’m not apologizin’ for the things I’ve done,” he clarifies, “but… if it makes you feel better, go ahead, I guess.”

Matt squeezes his hand and turns his head, tilting it up for a kiss. Frank obliges him, even though the action is far too intimate.

“Thank you,” Matt whispers to him.

_For what?_ Frank wants to ask him. He’s the one who should be thanking Matt, for seeing some scrap of humanity in him that the rest of the world doesn’t seem to see. He’s the one who should be thanking Matt, for worrying about him, for doing everything he can to ensure that Frank gets to see his family again, even if it is in an imaginary afterlife.

Sometimes, Matt Murdock breaks his damn heart.

Matt prays more, after that, quiet enough that Frank can’t hear. Frank watches him, knelt down besides the bed, or in the living room for a few minutes before he meditates to get ready for the night.

Frank… doesn’t stop using lethal force. This is what he tells himself. He shoots anyone who goes in to kill Matt. He doesn’t hesitate when it’s a choice between himself and a guy from the Russian mob. If there’s an innocent involved, a hostage, or a woman, or a child, he lets himself aim for the heart or the head.

But he reasons that guys in comas don’t pose much of a threat, either. Neither do guys with fractured skulls, or guys who’ve got bullets in both kneecaps. So sometimes, he allows himself to miss, to hit a liver instead of the intestines, to go for shoulder rather than heart. Matt makes sure they get put away anyway, and most of the low-level guys don’t have the pull within their organizations to get sprung out and back on the streets.

Matt, of course, notices everything, and he’s not afraid to layer a little positive reinforcement into their relationship (it seems pretty clear at this point that it’s a relationship, even if Frank prefers to keep that thought locked in his own head).

In a word, the sex is mindblowing. But it’s not just that. Matt lets him keep a handgun in the nightstand. He doesn’t make a face when Frank cleans his guns. He comes home and tells stories about his father. Frank makes dinner, sometimes, and Matt will find him and give him a kiss and shoo him away from the sink afterwards.

Frank stays over more. He didn’t use to stay over. Matt doesn’t clear out a drawer or anything, but he does push his clothes a little closer together, hangs the extra hangers in the empty space in the closet so Frank can use them if he wants to.

He finds that he does want to.

\---  
  


“Do you still worry about my soul?” Frank asks one night. They’ve just gotten in, Matt’s stripping off the suit, running a hand through his hair to make it even more disheveled.

“Huh?” He heard him, of course. Matt hears everything. But he doesn’t always process, if he’s in the middle of a thought. Of course, it also works to his advantage to pretend, sometimes, if he needs time to think of an answer.

Frank strides over to him, stops him in his tracks. He lays his hands on Matt’s bare shoulders, slightly sticky with drying sweat.

“Do you still worry about my soul?” he asks again, gentler.

Matt looks away for a moment—Frank can’t help but continue to think in visual terms, even though he should know better at this point. He takes Matt’s chin in his fingers and points his face back towards him.

It’s a selfish move, honestly, and it makes Matt uncomfortable, his eyes shifting as he tries to aim them in the right direction. But it makes Frank feel better, and in this moment, with this man, he thinks maybe it’s okay to be selfish.

“Matty.”

“Yes.” The word has the weight of confession. “I just—I don’t think I can stop. I don’t know how. But it’s less, Frank. I just—I still want that for you, to see them again, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop being anxious about the idea that you might not get to.”

Matt’s selflessness still blows him away. He’s so earnest, he just blows right past Frank’s walls, and Frank can’t even be mad about it.

“You gonna come find me up there?” he asks, voice low. His fingers slide up from Matt’s chin to cradle his jaw.

“I might end up going first,” Matt says, voice light to soften the blow of the words. And it is a blow. Frank knows that it’s a possibility, that he could lose Matt anytime. Any night they go out, all it takes is for those superhuman, super-exhausted senses to fail, or those lightning reflexes to slow, or for Frank to lose focus for one second, and Matt Murdock could leave this world.

Frank’s chest aches when he thinks about it, and he tries not to think about what that means, what that says about him.

“Not allowed,” he says seriously, “I mean it.”

“I know.” An acknowledgement of the way Frank’s feeling without taking back the truth, that they might not survive when they go out at night to hunt the city’s predators and scavengers.

“You’ll come find me.” It’s not a question anymore.

Matt smiles a little. “Frank, it sounds like you might be a believer after all.”

He’s not. This conversation is less about the _after_ than it is about the _now_ , about what they mean to each other.

“I guess I do believe in some things,” he admits.

Matt draws him in for a kiss, and this, _this_ is worth believing in. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't love how I ended this one but it did need to end eventually I suppose so... have a sappy fic! Hopefully their characterizations aren't too wildly different from the show, I could feel Frank getting a little more sappy than I typically make him.


End file.
